


In Sheep's Clothing

by Septembers_coda



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Dean Has Issues, Gen, Guilt, Religious Conflict, Religious Content, Sam Has Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 20:47:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1563524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Septembers_coda/pseuds/Septembers_coda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean must protect a meek, extremely religious high-school girl from a vampire that has been stalking and killing virgins. Unfortunately, they have to kidnap her to do it. In their attempts to earn her trust, their beliefs about themselves and their place in the world are sorely challenged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Sheep's Clothing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brightly_lit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightly_lit/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Angels at the Door](https://archiveofourown.org/works/971532) by [brightly_lit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightly_lit/pseuds/brightly_lit). 



> This is a remix of an incredible, moving story, **Angels at the Door ** , by brightly_lit. I can only hope I did it justice. The original is a must-read.
> 
> Special thanks to my very thorough and helpful beta, balder12. I had no idea how to write a remix, and her excellent suggestions made me feel like this might just be a success.

Dean sighed as he parked the Impala in an out-of-the-way spot, behind a tree, at the park where they planned to wait for this vamp—or more accurately, for his prey. “At least,” he said to Sam with a smirk as they got out, “if we have to hang out in suburbia, we get to check out some high school chicks.”

“Dude, you’re gross.”

“Just kiddin’. Anyway, these’ll be the prude ones. Never went for them even when _I_ was in high school.”

“Lucky for them.”

They’d found their way to the bench they’d staked out; it lay perfectly in the path the girl—this sicko vamp’s chosen victim—would take to walk home from her super-conservative, private religious academy. Dean felt a pang of guilt to think that it was their job to make sure she never got home, at least not today.

Why is it that being the good guys so often made them look bad? “I feel like the fuckin’ neighborhood perv,” he muttered as they sat down, and a group of chattering girls walked past. Sam gave him a sympathetic shrug.

These girls were safe. Not loners; they moved in a pack like most teenagers did, and Dean was willing to bet they weren’t all virgins. They wore the prude uniforms from the school of the girl the vamp was stalking, but a lot of them had unbuttoned their collars, rolled up their sleeves, or even taken off the long, button down white shirts to reveal tank-tops underneath. One of these gave Dean a bold smile now, swinging her removed shirt in what she probably thought was a seductive way.

“Hey,” said Dean laconically, raising one eyebrow.

Her face registered a vivid, silent “OMG!” and she fled back to her friends, who all shrieked and giggled as they hurried away. Dean couldn’t help smiling. Nah. Not virgins, or not for long.

The next girl who came along fit the bill rather better. Nothing was unbuttoned, rolled up, or taken off of _her._ The hem of her dull gray skirt touched the tops of her loafers, her shirt was buttoned at her wrist and just below her chin, crisply ironed and neatly tucked in… she wore the uniform like armor.

“That’s her,” muttered Sam as she came abreast of them. Dean could tell right away that their plan of chatting her up, leading her willingly away, and somehow getting her into the Impala wasn’t going to work. If the vamp followed his pattern, he’d show up any minute now, and he was exceptionally good at disappearing with his prey.

If they wanted to keep her safe, they were going to have to kidnap her. Nothing ironic about that, thought Dean bitterly.

He and Sam got up and silently flanked her, looking around to ensure there were no witnesses. The girl panicked immediately. She broke into a run, but it took him only two quickened strides to reach her.

The way she shrieked against his hand, the pure, slack terror in her body when he grabbed her, and the weakness of her struggle all stabbed at Dean’s heart. “Not gonna hurt you,” he said, unaccustomed pity making his voice gruffer than usual. “Hey, calm down. Listen, I know this is hard to believe, but I’m trying to help you.”

“Dean,” said Sam sharply. He nodded down the alley the girl had tried to escape into.

“Go after him,” said Dean. “I’ll stay with her. Here, take the machete.” He pulled the broad, wicked blade out of his coat and tossed it handle-first to Sam, who caught it adroitly and disappeared into the alley.

The girl made an inarticulate sound of horror against his hand when he’d pulled out the blade. God, he’d almost forgotten about her. Why hadn’t she tried to run when he was only holding her with one hand? He’d left himself wide open; she could have belted him in the gut, stomped on his instep and made a break for it. She had no survival instincts at all. Dean was astonished that anyone was able to go through the world that weak and ignorant.

He realized, as he renewed his restraining grip on her arms, that she was near fainting. Her eyes had rolled back in her head and she was hyperventilating. “Hey!” he snapped, shaking her a little and hating himself for this roughness. “Snap out of it. Listen. There’s a… really bad dude after you. My brother and I, we hunt… bad guys. We’re just here to keep him from hurting you, I swear. Then we’ll let you go and you can go back to your family. But meantime, you gotta come with us.”

He was walking her toward the car. He wanted to make it look natural, but she was barely moving her feet. If he slung her over his shoulder and carried her to his car, any witnesses would definitely call the police, but that’s what he ended up doing.

He felt an intense loathing for the huddled, helpless warmth of her body, for her slight weight and the ineffectuality of her struggles. Her terrified whimpers made Dean suddenly want more than anything to set her down, get in the Impala alone, and drive away, never to look back. Her fear, her helplessness, her desperate desire to escape and her complete inability to do so made _him_ want to get away. As far away as possible.

He always did, and he never would.

~* * *~

Sam cursed as it became clear the vamp had lost him. He was a wily one. No one ever got the jump on Sam this way—or if they did, Dean would pick up the slack. It was inconceivable that this bloodsucker, with his penchant for virgin’s blood and disappearing into thin air, had evaded them this long.

Sam ducked back into an alley and hid the machete behind his back as another pair of girls from Dorothy’s school walked by. One glanced at him nervously. He tried to smile at her, and she flinched, grabbing her friend’s elbow and quickening her stride.

Good, thought Sam, though the sight stabbed at his heart. At least these girls had some instincts of self-preservation. 

He’d done the research on Dorothy when they discovered she was next on the virgin-eating vamp’s hit-list—stalked her, truth be told. It didn’t matter that he did so in hopes of protecting her. He still felt like he needed a shower after looking up her family on the internet, hacking into her medical records and other information, and peering into her room with binoculars for an hour one night while Dean watched for any sign of the vamp. He’d attempted to find info on her friends, only to discover she didn’t really have any. He’d looked for a cell phone number for her to see if he could glean anything from her texts, and found that neither she nor anyone in her radically-Christian family had a cell phone. Or a computer, or even a television.

He hurried, covertly, back to the Impala. It was ominously still inside. When he got in the passenger seat, he saw Dorothy in the back. She was unrestrained and simply sat, staring glassy-eyed.

He looked questioningly at Dean, who shrugged. “She’s not goin’ anywhere. Think she’s in shock.”

Sam looked at his brother for a minute. A moment’s observation told him all he needed to know about how Dean’s interaction with the girl must’ve gone.

“I’d better at least ride back there with her,” he said finally.

“Suit yourself,” said Dean, pulling into an alley so Sam could make the seat switch.

Dorothy did not react well to Sam’s company. The way her eyes widened and the rate of her breathing increased when he sat next to her, the way she gave a tiny scream when he touched her arm reassuringly… Sam found himself remembering, inexplicably, the first time he’d died. Jake’s knife, punching into him and tearing though his spinal cord. This was Dorothy’s fear.

He tried to speak past it. He lowered his voice to a murmur, almost a whisper. “I swear, Dorothy. We are doing this to save you. We wouldn’t do it if there was any other choice. We’ll take care of this, and we’ll bring you back to your family.”

Sam’s heart sank when Dorothy didn’t respond at all. He glanced at Dean in the rearview mirror. Dean’s face was hard, eyes deceptively blank. Bad sign. Sam knew that the harder Dean’s face looked, the greater the storm of emotion it concealed.

Sam tried once or twice more to talk to the girl, using his gentlest tones, but she made no response. He watched her surreptitiously out of the corner of his eye. She never relaxed. Her fingers clutched the fabric of her skirt so hard her knuckles were white, and the tendons in her neck stood out from her clenched jaw. These symptoms only increased every time Sam spoke to her, so he shut up eventually, wishing as hard as he could that he had a real, solid reason to reassure Dorothy.

Because who was to say she wasn’t right to fear him and Dean, even to hate them? Dean couldn’t see this the way Sam could. When Sam had arrived at Stanford, he’d noticed some things about the way people looked at him, the sidelong glances he got in the cafeteria and at other times, that had made him realize exactly how different the Winchesters were from other people. He’d spent his time at Stanford becoming conscious of things like… well, _manners,_ for one. Dean seemed to sometimes have an idea that he shouldn’t say “fuck” when he was posing as an FBI agent, but otherwise the finer points of language and its effect on people were lost on him. Sam had learned how other people ate, spoke, and acted in various situations. There had been some embarrassment until he figured out some less… _feral_ methods, but the knowledge had served him well in the years since.

Dean knew exactly what kind of weapon to use on dozens of different monsters, at what range, how fast and how hard. But what fork to use would be a problem… if he even used a fork, or had any idea that he should.

Sam didn’t feel superior to Dean, though. When he looked at Dorothy, curled small and terrified on the seat, diffident and weak and incapable, he felt ham-fisted, too big, like the worst sort of barbarian. Like no knowledge of social mores he had ever gained was more than a thin bubble that would dissolve at the lightest touch, revealing the animal within. Sam and Dean could visit her world sometimes, but they didn’t belong any place Dorothy belonged. 

They could wear sheepskin, but underneath they would always be wolves.

~* * *~

Sam was really worried about this vampire. Dean responded with his usual nonchalance when he tried to talk about it, so there was no help to be had there. But the monster’s behavior was inexplicable, and it was inexcusable that they hadn’t caught him yet. It was mocking them. It was better than they were, and Dorothy might die because of it.

He wanted to scout, see if he could make contact and maybe a quick kill, just get this over with. But it quickly became clear that he couldn’t leave Dorothy alone with Dean.

Not because Dorothy couldn’t handle it—well, she couldn’t, but Sam’s presence only made that worse. It was Dean Sam was worried about. 

Dean was used to a certain reaction from women that usually involved furtive eye contact, smiles, the occasional blush, and (either immediately or eventually) heavy flirtation on both sides. A certain amount of eye-rolling or acerbic comments didn’t faze him; even outright rejection had little effect. Abject terror, though, was a different matter.

Sam saw the tension growing in Dean every time Dorothy wept, flinched, or looked faint. Every time Dean raised his voice, it was like the harshness of his words, the heavier-than-usual dose of profanity, was a fierce anger directed not at Dorothy, but at himself. He knew Dean well enough to know that what he really felt was fear: of _Dorothy’s_ fear, and that she was right to feel it.

Sam was looking right at Dean’s face when Dorothy spoke one of her first full sentences in his presence. When Dean asked her if he really seemed like such a bad guy, and she looked directly into Dean’s eyes with a flash of bravery Sam would never have expected and said, “You are evil.”

Dean’s face closed tight, like lead containment doors closing over a nuclear meltdown. His eyes were utterly empty—to anyone but Sam, who read clearly there the lines of a Shakespearian-flawed tragic hero. He saw Hell dance right back under Dorothy’s words to claim Dean. He saw Dean with the torturer’s blade in his hand, and he was his own victim.

“Well,” said Dean coolly. “There ya have it.”

Weirdly, Dorothy seemed to relax around Dean a little then. Not around Sam, though. The more softly Sam spoke to her, the more careful he was with his words to make them soothing, civil and kind, the more she seemed to fear him. He could bear it. He deserved it, after all. He, who had started the apocalypse, who had lain with demons and drank their blood, carried it in his veins since infancy, used its power for ultimate evil, even as he had tried, harder and harder all the time, to be good. Even to die for his sins. But he was no martyr. Even his death was unclean; he’d returned as a soulless monster and done even more evil… Dean might believe he was better, that he was good enough now that his tarnished soul was returned, but Sam was not sure. Had never been sure. No wonder Dorothy feared him. He would take it, this penance that he deserved.

So he couldn’t leave Dean with Dorothy, and let him take on the evil that was Sam’s, if it was anyone’s. He had to stay here, to be the one she feared, to take that weight from Dean if he could.

One weight was too heavy. He knew Dorothy feared they would rape her, and it was Sam she feared the most. Her shriek of terror when Sam had come out of the shower, wrapped only in a towel, the horror she felt at seeing his body that was so much greater than any fear of vampires, or loud, scary cars, or loud, scary hunters… this reaction was like a recitation of Sam’s sins. Like Sam—not possessed by Lucifer or a demon, not because of the demon blood within him, but just Sam, the man—was the worst monster of all.

Did she know? Could this innocent soul feel the taint in him? Did she know how close he had come, when he was possessed by Meg? With someone not much older, nor much less innocent, than Dorothy… Sam felt Jake’s knife rip him again when he remembered Jo. Dead now, saved from the horror Sam nearly visited on her, only to end at the claws of a hellhound… but though that grief, one of a thousand such in him, was heavy, that fate was better, so much better… 

Sam had handled hallucinations of Lucifer and memories of the Cage better than he had ever dealt with the memory of Jo, tough-as-nails, strong and capable Jo, who trusted and cared about him, reduced to begging for mercy from what had almost… _almost…_

He started when Dean said, “Sammy? You OK?” 

Dorothy was peeking at him curiously from behind Dean, where she perched nervously on the chair in their hotel room. Sam realized he was clutching his head, hunched over the pain of this memory, what it had felt like when Meg had used his body, his size and strength, to commit those horrors he had, for so long, thought he’d be spared, because he couldn’t remember at first. He remembered now. He remembered everything.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’m good. Just a headache.”

~* * *~

After the first day with Dorothy, Dean figured everything was going about as well as it ever did for the Winchesters. He’d gotten over his loathing once she’d shown a little spine. She’d had no trouble accepting the existence of vampires and other supernatural evil. Well, maybe a hyper-religious upbringing was good for something after all, even though it had rendered her completely unable to defend herself.

She had gradually begun, if not to trust them exactly, at least to relax slightly—until the horror of Sam’s naked body was unleashed on her. Dean couldn’t help finding this hysterically funny, although he couldn’t laugh when he saw how it had affected Sam. He was secretly glad he hadn’t been the one who’d run out of the bathroom in a towel and made her shriek like a banshee.

He felt bad for Sam that Dorothy was so terrified of him, but honestly, it was nice to be the Winchester someone trusted for once. All of Sam’s manners and soft-talking didn’t do any good with Dorothy. Dean’s blunt shouts, as long as he left off the profanity, seemed to work better. Once she’d decided he was evil, she seemed to be able to accept him in that context. So, his desire to be recognized as the good guy aside, he was OK. 

They decided they had to offer to take Dorothy back to her family. It would not be safe for her, and neither brother was keen on essentially using her as bait, or endangering her family. The vamp had taken a heavy toll on the victims’ families whenever he had trouble reaching the girls; Sam and Dean had learned some hard lessons about that already. It was the main reason they’d resorted to kidnapping. Convincing Dorothy of their good intentions toward her family (and her) had proven fruitless, but they were fraying under the strain of her distrust and terror, and were no closer to catching the monster, so they had little to lose. 

It was Sam who made the offer. Watching Dorothy flinch away from him, Dean was about to interfere, but his instincts (such as they were when it came to humans) told him to let it play out.

“Dorothy,” Sam said in that gentle voice that worked on everyone else, but just made Dorothy cringe. “I know what you think of us. And can I be honest with you? I don’t blame you. I don’t know what to say to you to make it better. We’re trying to protect both you and your family, but seeing you so scared and unhappy—maybe you’re right. Maybe we should just take you home. We’ll stay nearby and do our best to catch him. Maybe you could just… think of something to say to your family to warn them, make them stay home for a day or two until we get this guy.”

Dean didn’t like the look on Sam’s face. He recognized it; it was not unlike the look Sam had worn when Dean had told him he couldn’t trust him after the Ruby disaster, and it cut into Dean the same way. It was defeat, and… belief. That the horrible things Dorothy said to him without words, the way she flinched whenever he spoke, were true.

Dean was about to yell at her again that they were the good guys. He wanted to tell her everything Sam had done for the world, including her and her family, and what he was willing to do to save _her_ —which was anything. And Dorothy looked at him like he was the devil himself. Dean winced at the thought—it wouldn’t help matters if Dorothy knew he actually _had_ been.

But Dorothy’s expression changed before Dean could open his mouth to yell. She had stared at Sam while he made his speech; Dean strained to see what went on behind those carefully downcast, too-vulnerable eyes. Now she raised her eyes to Sam’s face, making eye contact with him for the first time ever. Sam looked uncertain, but held her gaze.

“You’re keeping me away from my family to protect them as well as me?” she asked quietly.

“We are,” Sam answered, and Dean had no idea how Dorothy could resist that tormented, dew-eyed puppy stare when almost no one else could.

Her defense against it seemed to be weakening; her eyes softened perceptibly. “I will not endanger them,” she said with finality, and stood up, dusting off her long, full skirt, picking up the pair of jeans and a shirt they’d bought her at the thrift store that day, and turning toward the bathroom. “I will stay until you stop the murderer.” She still had trouble using the word _vampire._

“But… you wouldn’t have to… be around us anymore,” Sam said awkwardly.

Dorothy looked at him for a long moment from the door of the bathroom. “It’s all right, Sam,” she said, and some of the wariness had faded from her tone.

Sam looked startled as she closed the bathroom door, and after a moment, Dean realized why.

It was the first time she’d spoken either of their names.

~* * *~

“All right,” he said abruptly. It was the morning after Baby had crapped out on them on a deserted back road through deep woods, and they’d had to spend the night huddled together in the back seat for warmth, waiting for the light of day so Dean could see to do repairs. “I’ll have my girl up and running in no time—this girl,” he added quickly, patting the Impala’s hood when Dorothy looked startled. “In the meantime, Dorothy, it’s time you learned some things.”

She looked up, her expression very serious. Something had changed in her last night—between her and Sam, he thought. Poor Sam. His chivalrous instincts were horribly divided when it came to Dorothy. Sam knew Dorothy was horrified of touching him, but he also needed to keep her warm, and the three of them sleeping under the same blanket in the back seat had been the only way to accomplish that. Dean was sure Sam had barely closed his eyes all night. Dorothy refused to take Sam’s jacket when he offered it, and she froze—like one of those dreams everyone had, about stepping into the spotlight naked onstage at the school play—when Dean proposed his back seat plan. But his instinct had been right when he decided he just had to push her through this issue. The idea of Sam forcing his attentions on anyone, let alone a high school girl, was completely ridiculous. Of course Dean himself would never do anything of the kind, either, but she seemed to fear him less— which was ironic, all things considered. She’d surely be shocked if she ever found out what a slut Dean was, but Dean didn’t know if she’d have the opposite kind of appreciation if she knew how monk-like Sam was comparatively.

So, sleeping next to the both of them in the back of the Impala was like throwing her in the river and seeing if she could swim, and it seemed to have worked. He’d seen Sam gamely give her one of his kind smiles that morning, and for once, she’d smiled back. So it was time to right what Dean saw as the most grievous wrong in this situation.

“You couldn’t defend yourself from a little old-lady nun with a ruler—” literally, he thought “—let alone a vampire. So you’re gonna learn.”

_“Me?”_ Dorothy’s eyes grew even larger, taking up her whole thin, small face.

Dean grinned at her blatant shock. “You. You’re young and strong, right? This weak damsel thing is just an act, because that’s how ladies are supposed to behave, right?” 

She stared blankly at him.

“Right?” he continued. “You’re supposed to wait around for a man to protect you, and you can’t lift a finger to help yourself.”

“I can lift a finger,” she said mildly, and Dean was relieved to see that it was possible to stir up some kind of defiance in her. “But I _was_ taught to act like a lady.” 

“Well, I like my ladies able to look after themselves, ‘cuz I won’t always be around to—” 

He paused, and Sam interjected, with an ironic smirk, “Kidnap them, terrify them, drag them two states away, and keep them up all night with your snoring? Poor, deprived ladies.”

Dean was too shocked when Dorothy actually _smiled_ to drum up any proper outrage at even this weak sally from Sam. “Hey, I don’t snore,” he said, ignoring Sam’s snort. “Anyway, aside from being a terrifying kidnapper—” and here he was rewarded by what sounded suspiciously like an actual _giggle_ from Dorothy— _“Sam_ here is eminently qualified to teach you some skills.”

_“Me?”_ said Sam, echoing Dorothy’s earlier surprise.

“What, are you two twins? Yes, it falls to you, my brother, cuz I sure ain’t letting you mess with my baby, and you two need to spend your time well while I’m slaving away under the hood. So here.” He rummaged in the Impala’s trunk, setting aside the toolkit and grabbing a machete, which he tossed to Sam handle-first. 

She squeaked at the sight of the weapon, and Dean recalled how this was an echo of the moment they’d kidnapped her, and he’d thrown that same blade to Sam to go after the vamp. 

As before, Sam caught it deftly, glancing at her. “Not sure I want to start her with a machete, Dean, but… yeah, if you’re willing, Dorothy, I can show you some things,” Sam said diffidently.

“Machete’s what you use for vampires, isn’t it? Whatever you want, though. Do we have any Dead Man’s Blood? You might just give her some tips about holy water, salt, stuff like that. Hopefully she’ll never need it, but it’s your class, Professor Sammy. Knock yourselves out.” He lugged his toolkit to the front of the car and got to work without another word.

The sounds he heard soothed him almost as much as being under the hood of the Impala always did. Hesitantly, Sam began to describe some of the more common supernatural encounters and how to deal with them. Dorothy, reticent at first, gradually asked more questions, and Dean came to realize that many things about battling the supernatural made sense to her. She embraced the holy water idea immediately, but was dismayed to learn that neither it nor crucifixes had any effect on vampires. Eventually, as Baby began to come around, the quiet talk was replaced by shuffling and a few startled exclamations, accompanied by Sam’s steady voice, as they moved on to some physical training. Dean smiled, recalling her fragile, limp weakness at the beginning. There might be hope for her after all. And he and Sam were giving it to her. 

Because they were the good guys.

~* * *~

Sam could hardly believe the transformation in Dorothy in just a couple of days. He’d never have imagined her being willing to even touch the machete, let alone learn something about how to swing it—but after a close call (he thanked his quick reflexes that he’d jumped out of the way in time, and fortunately she hadn’t noticed) when she did so, he decided that sharp blades weren’t a good idea at this stage of physical training.

He’d shocked himself by talking to her so much. Beyond teaching her about the supernatural, he’d told her a little about himself. Without making it about her, he seemed to have communicated to her what torture it was to have her so terrified of him—terrified of things he would never do. 

She smiled at him sometimes now, and it was like her universal translator had kicked in. When they’d first taken her, she’d reacted to all his gentlest reassurances as if they were threats. Now she seemed to believe them, and what’s more, to want to learn from him.

In this, he trusted her. He couldn’t have said why, but if he’d believed her when she was afraid of him, why should he not allow the terror inside him, of what he had become, to change in him as it changed in her? The night before, they both lay awake in the back of the Impala, she stiff with fear of the closeness of his body, while he was broken open by her horror and what she might sense in him that caused it. Finally, Sam had begun to talk. He’d told her… well, almost everything. Things he’d never told Dean, especially about being possessed. He’d told her how awful it was to know he had been used for such horrific evil, how he still had dreams that something happened to his anti-possession tattoo, or that it was a lie and didn’t work, and maybe he’d be possessed again, and he or Dean would never know. He told her that he prayed at these times, and that sometimes it even helped.

“Of course,” she’d said, her voice soft and unexpected in the darkness. It was the first time she’d spoken during his long monologue, and Sam had wondered if she’d gone to sleep. “God protects you. God forgives.”

He hadn’t told Dorothy that he thought she was right to fear him, that there really was evil inside him, but he thought she knew. Knew, and disagreed. She had faith. As he always had, and realized he still did.

They were more alike than he ever would have suspected, both adrift in a world that would never make sense to them. 

She worked with him to make sense of it. He taught her some basic things—how to break a choke hold, where to kick an attacker to debilitate him, the uses of salt, iron, and holy water, how to recognize demons and shifters and, of course, vampires. She was keen to learn this. Finally, he’d taken her back to the Impala and given her their one precious syringe full of Dead Man’s Blood. After checking its cap carefully, and prissily lecturing Sam about sharps safety and the dangers of infected blood, she had tucked it safely in the deep pocket of her school uniform skirt.

Dean, having finished repairing the Impala, was pleased with her progress, teasing her that she’d be Buffy the vampire slayer before long, or Xena, warrior princess. She had clearly understood neither reference, and Dean happily explained them both to her as they drove away. The only sour note that whole morning sounded when Dean had proclaimed they ought to be able to get the vamp that day, and Dorothy could go back to her family.

Dean hadn’t seen the deep sadness in Dorothy’s eyes. He wouldn’t have understood if he had. But Sam knew what it meant. She couldn’t go back. No one ever could. The old life might still be there, but the person who had lived it was gone forever.

They hadn’t gotten the vamp that day, but when they checked into a motel that night, Sam told Dean he was sure they were closing in. Dean asked about Dorothy’s training, and if Sam thought she’d have a chance if the vamp got to her somehow.

Sam didn’t want to say that it still wasn’t a good chance, but then, Dean already knew that. “Hope so,” was all he said, and Dean nodded. Sam knew he was far more worried—and far fonder of Dorothy—than he would ever let on.

In truth, Sam could hardly imagine what it would be like once she was gone, this odd presence unlike anything they had ever known. A note of purity in their corrupt lives—a reminder of what there was to protect.

Sam wanted to do something nice for her on what was likely to be their last day together. He settled on washing some of her clothes; the motel had a coin-op washer and dryer. He was carrying the folded pile back to their room when his instincts shrilled an alarm: something was wrong.

Sam had found, in the hundreds of moments like these over his lifetime, that it was the tiniest details, the little things that added up to a warning. Everything was silent except for a small, unidentifiable sound, some kind of innocuous shuffling, at the edge of his consciousness. The brightly-sunlit parking lot was still. He’d passed under the window of their room and heard Dean singing in the shower just a moment before, and now…

Now, the back passenger side door of the Impala was just slightly ajar. Now, there were shadows behind the car that stirred the littlest bit… a puff of dust in the gravel parking lot… the tiniest glimpse of a shoe, a prudish brown loafer…

He dropped the pile of laundry and sprinted for the car, and almost ran into Dean, who burst out of their room at top speed, machete in hand… and clad only in a towel.

He had no time to appreciate the dramatic symmetry as he sprinted forward, terrified to be too late, to see the worst. When he rounded the Impala, his heart soared at the sight of Dorothy, scrambling back from the fallen vampire, syringe in hand, and Dean, neatly beheading the thing with one hard stroke of the machete just as the towel slipped off his waist.

He turned, stark naked, soaking wet, and blood-spattered, to look at Sam. Sam glanced at Dorothy, waiting for the scream that never came. She gaped at Dean in shock, clutching the syringe, open-mouthed.

Dean raised his eyebrow at Sam. “Well, Sammy,” he said, picking up the towel and draping it around his waist casually, wiping the machete with a corner, “if we ever needed proof that I’m the good-looking one, here it is. Evil or not, _this_ didn’t earn a blood-curdling scream—” He started to gesture down at himself while wiggling mock-provocatively, and was cut off when Dorothy hurtled into him suddenly, hugging him tightly.

Dean clutched at the precarious towel with one hand and hesitantly patted her back with the other, staring bewildered at Sam over her shoulder.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Dean,” she was sobbing, her words muffled against his shoulder. She repeated herself, and Sam stepped forward to pry her off, thinking she was in shock, but she continued. “I’m sorry I called you evil. You are a righteous man. A good man. Thank you. Thank you for saving me.”

“Uh… sure,” said Dean uncomfortably, patting her gingerly, and he clutched the towel again as she released him abruptly and threw her arms around Sam. 

“And you. Sam. Thank you. I’m sorry I screamed when I saw you in the towel. I’m sorry I made you feel evil. You are a good man too, a warrior of God, and… and you helped me, or he would have gotten me. The Dead Man’s Blood, Sam! It worked, and what you taught me!”

“It sure did,” said Dean, patting her back roughly. “Don’t know what you’re thanking me for. Sam, you should’ve seen it. He had her down, but she kicked him in the balls, stabbed him with that syringe, and threw ‘im off with no help from me! I just got clean-up duty.” He twirled the machete showily, with a grin.

“Well,” said Sam, glancing at Dean’s blood-spattered nakedness, and the mud creeping up his legs from running wet through the dust ,“Looks like you need your own clean-up duty now. We should split pretty quick. I’ll hide the body while you get dressed.”

“I’ll help,” said Dorothy brightly. She was still wide-eyed, panting, and very emotional, but oddly cheerful. Sam shared an encouraging smile with her while Dean said, “Thanks, D, but I don’t need help getting dressed.”

“Evidence points to the contrary,” Sam muttered as Dorothy squeaked, outraged, but to Sam’s surprise she swatted Dean playfully while Sam pulled a tarp out of the Impala, hoping that somehow the brief scuffle had been overlooked.

There was no place convenient to stow the body nearby, and they needed to get out of sight quickly, so Dorothy shifted some things in the trunk of the Impala to make room while Sam rolled the body neatly in the tarp, head and all, and lifted it into the trunk. He felt a swell of pride when Dorothy, with no prompting from him, observed the bloody dust left behind and kicked gravel over it, smoothing the area to conceal the blood on the ground.

Dean appeared as they were finishing and they took off promptly. The car was filled with laughter and good cheer; Dean bragged about Dorothy’s brave badassery until she flushed and told him to hush. But Sam caught her pleased smile in the rearview.

It was quiet for some time while Dean burned rubber to get them a good distance from the scene of the attack. They found a convenient construction site and dumped the body in an industrial-sized dumpster. Dorothy grew very grave as she watched.

“You live a very dangerous life,” she said as Sam got in and Dean drove away. “And do important work, God’s work, for very little reward.”

“Got that right,” said Dean.

“What will you do now, Dorothy?” Sam asked.

“I’ll have you home in a few hours,” Dean interjected. “No more crappy hotels or stinky dudes for you. You’ll be back in your nice, safe bedroom tonight. Lacy pillows and all, I’ll bet.”

There was a silence while Sam met Dorothy’s eyes in the rearview. She smiled gently at him, and it cracked his heart when she said, “Thank you, Dean. But I can’t go back there.”

“You can’t?”

“No. I am… not the girl who had the lacy pillows anymore. And I don’t feel I ever really was who my parents wanted me to be. You’ve shown me a different way. I must find my own path.” 

She paused, thinking, then said, hesitantly, “I can’t live the life you live. But I would like to learn more about how to protect myself and my loved ones, and later… well, maybe later I can help you, sometimes. Maybe we’ll see each other again.”

Sam smiled. He and Dean might be wolves, but thanks to them, Dorothy was no longer such a sheep, and so she was still alive—still part of the world that he and Dean could visit now and then.

Dean was stunned silent, but Sam leaned forward and clasped her shoulder, and she covered his hand with hers—so much smaller than his, but firm and strong.

“I’d like that, Dorothy,” he said.

~The End~


End file.
